


whiither thou goe2t

by Laylah



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Ancestor-Era, Angst, Devotion, M/M, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-07
Updated: 2012-02-07
Packaged: 2017-10-30 17:53:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 969
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/334495
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laylah/pseuds/Laylah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>With the sickle of harvesting he cut away the collar that kept your psionics in check, and you razed your master's hive to rubble so you could follow him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	whiither thou goe2t

You don't know his name; you don't think any of his followers do. He makes a point of it. He calls himself _the Signless_ and he wears his off-the-spectrum crimson on his clothes and everything he does is with a purpose. His intensity burns with the terrible fury of the sun. The first night you met him, when he looked you in your bicolored eyes and asked you, "Do you not want something better than this?" you knew that intensity would scorch you inside and out, reducing your old life to ashes. You welcomed the cleansing flame.

With the sickle of harvesting he cut away the collar that kept your psionics in check, and you razed your master's hive to rubble so you could follow him.

You follow him, and everywhere he goes there are trolls who come to hear his message. He speaks of the injustice of the hemospectrum, the cruelty of a race that culls its own kind, the paradise of an Alternia where pity is freely shared instead of rarely given and jealously guarded. Where hate is no longer a necessity, but an anomaly.

You are not the first of his followers; there is the stately jade Dolorosa, who abandoned her rank and duty to raise him from a grub, and there is the wild, green-blooded Disciple, who transcribes his words and shares them so that others may pass them along. They were suspicious of you at first, but you have come to an understanding: all of you follow him because he represents hope. Your hearts are with his cause and with _him_.

In public you are his ally; you help keep the crowds calm when he speaks to them, hold them back when they would mob him—but gently, for he has pity for all trollkind, and you would not bring him grief by doing them harm. Once, a cloaked archeradicator tries to shoot him while he speaks. You pluck the arrow from the air with your powers and snap it in two. Then, at his insistence, you keep the angry crowd at bay so he can reach out to the archeradicator himself. He speaks to her of mercy, of compassion, of his vision: his world has room for all, room for her, even now. She should sneer in contempt for his weakness, but instead she falls to her knees and weeps bitter blue tears, pledging herself to his cause. The members of the crowd leave with their faith bolstered, murmuring of miracles, murmuring of _love_.

In private he is your savior. The weight of your visions threatens to crush you sometimes, and when it comes to its worst, when it leaves you curled in a shaking wreck in the dark of a cave, he comes to you. "It'th going to dethtroy uth," you whisper, not trusting your voice. The visions are vague, but clear enough: this campaign of his will end in blood, and that blood is crimson.

He gathers you in his arms, papping your face with warm, gentle hands. "Shoosh," he murmurs, holding you close. "Shoosh." You have never felt so safe, so treasured, as you do in his presence.

"They won't thtand for it," you tell him; the knowledge breaks you. "The Condethe and the highbloodth will kill you."

He kisses your forehead. "I know," he says. Infinitely gentle, infinitely sad. "I wish I could spare you all the pain that will cause."

You want to say _it's enough that you care_ , except it isn't enough; it's just all you can have. "I'd thtill rather be here and thuffer for it than never have met you," you say. When he moves to kiss you again, you shift to kiss him back.

You don't do this often. Some days he's too exhausted to give more of himself to any of you, and when that is not the case his first Disciple is the one who cocoons herself with him most often. But she knows that sometimes you do, too, and she shares in his kindness enough that she doesn't begrudge you these days.

You kiss him. You run your hands through the wiry mess of his hair, thumb the bases of his rounded horns, climb into his lap to feel his heat. Everything about him is compact and powerful: you can feel the strength in his hands no matter how gentle he is, and the heat of his blood makes you flushed. He's like a diamond, reduced under pressure to this brilliant, unbreakable solidity. When the highbloods come for him in the end, he won't—

No. You can't stop it, and you can't erase the knowledge, but you can at least put it aside for now.

You worship him. Not for his teachings, but for the things he has shown you how to feel, for the unbearable beauty of compassion and desire that you would never have known without him. With your hands and your mouth you worship him. With the most tender brush of your powers you lift him up. You touch and tease and taste him, letting the sensations of his body, his presence, drive the visions from the forefront of your mind. When he spills—scarlet, brighter than any troll's fluids should ever be—you drink of him, heedless of the taboos against it. Your whole life, since you met him, has been outside the bounds of decency. You want _him_ far more than you want to cling to convention.

He stays with you that day, and you sleep in his arms. You know that you are all doomed, just as you know there is no escape for as long as you are faithful; just as you know that you will never willingly leave his side. The future will come when it must. Today you will treasure the present.


End file.
